


The Sense of Something Underneath the Surface

by chewysugar



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Post-Break Up, Reunion Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 22:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11240895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: They're both stuck on a broken down train in the middle of a snowstorm on the way back to NYC. There's nobody else around, and nothing but the memory of their regrets. But Peter and Mary Jane have a love to profound to let something as trivial as a break-up keep them apart.





	The Sense of Something Underneath the Surface

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the song "Winterbreak" by the band MUNA. Give them a listen. They're incredibly talented.

9:45 out of Boston and Mary Jane had the entire car of the train to herself. It was a veritable paradise after six days of photo shoots, press junkets, interviews and fashion shows. MJ collapsed into her plush seat in the third and last most car with indecent abandon. Not only did she feel exhausted and on the last vestiges of her nerves, but she was also freezing on account of the early winter that had taken the Atlantic coast by the carotids.

Yes, she'd chosen this life, among many other things, but that didn't mean she was always whistling Dixie over it. She'd held her breath in anticipation of blessedly occupying the car solo for the five-hour trip back to New York City. Five minutes to departure with nary a sign of other passengers, and Mary Jane counted her merciful blessings, put her earbuds in, curled up like a vixen in a winter den on her seat. In next to no time, she stared to feel herself doze off, Sade's " _Sweetest Taboo_ ," carrying her to dream land. 

Even in her state of half-sleep she felt the train begin to rumble away from the station, smooth as butter against the tracks. The steady forward motion and ambient whir of slipstream and wheels did nothing to disturb her, for she counted herself as one of those lesser blessed who needed a degree of white noise to unwind. The combination of music, warmth, motion and sound sent her off to a state of slumber faster than a dose of Xanax. 

She was, therefore, both thoroughly annoyed and just a little bewildered when, after what seemed like an eternity of pleasant rest and continuous propulsion, the train began to slow. MJ told herself, rudely awakened as she was, that the train was probably slowing for a herd of wild deer. When the train stopped, she made herself visualize the cute little Bambi and Mother of Bambi to prevent herself from giving into real, red anger. After all, the conductor couldn't very well willingly go running into an adorable collection of wild animals just because she, likely the only passenger riding this line, wanted to make it to Grand Central before the newest C-SPAN repeat.

The intercom crackled; MJ felt her heart sink, along with an immature desire to turn up her music and drown out the announcement that she knew was coming next. 

"Sorry folks, but if you look out your windows, you'll see that we're in the middle of a blizzard. Forecast says it might last for an hour or two so we'll sit tight while it blows over. In the meantime, all amenities are still available to you. The heat is still working and we'll be offering free food in the lunch car as a way of making it up to you." 

Mary Jane opened her eyes, blazing anger rising in her heart. What in the hell kind of gong show were these people running anyway? Didn't they check the goddamn weather before leaving Boston? No self-respecting human being, let alone Bostonian, would dream of believing that the capricious winter would be on the side of any mere mortal. Her temper turning as red as her hair, she yanked her earbuds out, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and made to stand up and give the idiots running this carnival ride a piece of her mind.

And that was when she saw that she was no longer the only person riding this empty car. 

He must have boarded in that final five minutes, like the bumbling, scatter brained sap that he was. Had it been anybody else sitting in the seat facing hers ten rows down, the possible exception being anyone in the current political administration, and Mary Jane would have shrugged it off as mere irritation that she'd lost the novelty of being lucky enough to have a whole car to herself. 

But he wasn't a stranger. Far from it. Seeing him drained the anger from MJ as if she'd been punctured, leaving her with an empty sort of chaos that made her feel strangely weightless and vulnerable. 

It had been months upon months she'd seen Peter Parker even in the busy streets of New York City. Dressed as he was now in a loose, navy hoodie, with his head tilted back in sleep and a full week's growth of beard peppering his jaw, he looked completely rundown. 

No. Not rundown. 

Defeated. 

Memories surfaced from an abyss that MJ had done her damnedest to drown them in. She stared out the window, watching the deadly beautiful blizzard close around the darkness outside in an onslaught of sheer white. And as she stared, she let the once-dead memories live and pull her down to that gaping void with them. 

* * *

 

_Even in midst of their life crumbling to ruin they still love each other. Even arguing, MJ wants nothing more than to feel those deceptively strong arms pull her close and crush all the doubts and insecurities and fears away with one embrace._

_He could do it, too, and has many times. But there's something broken now, only in the tangled cobwebs of memory, she can't quite remember what it is, only that it hurts, that it has nothing to do with anything justifiable, and it's killing them both._

_She's always the one doing the yelling, and as she remembers this dreamlike scene, she wonders bitterly why the hell she can't just shut the fuck up for once. Any other time there would be a rhyme and a reason, but she doesn't understand this, doesn't know why she's screaming at Peter._

_He always reacts the way MJ thought a man loved by a woman should act—with a quiet passion that scorches like subterranean magma. He cares—she knows he does by the hurt and anger and despair in his soulful eyes; in the way that he doesn't struggle to keep his voice even or his emotions under control, but simply lets them be; he knows that they’ll get over this childish squabble and go back to being recklessly in love by the morning._

_There's something different in this memory, though: something red and black and sulphurous, something that burns it all to ash and soot before MJ can recollect really what went wrong. All she knows is that it has and that the flakes of ash she can picture in the whiteout beyond the train window aren't enough to eclipse the feeling that the beautiful ever after she had with Peter was lost for a reason altogether too meaningless._

_Still she can't grasp it. All she can do is surface from the pain of the memory to find herself trapped on broken down train with nothing but a dark sky full of snow outside._

* * *

 

MJ shook herself, an all to familiar feeling of clawing, tempting blackness making its way from her brain down her throat and into her heart. A glance at the time on her phone told her that less then five minutes had surpassed since she'd drifted off into the bitterness of that horrible, pointless break up fight. She felt like she could spit iron; the reminiscence had been vital, and seemed to have taken a lifetime, yet she’d only been lost in it for less than the duration of an average pop song.

She chanced a quick glance at Peter. He was still asleep, his head against the window, his cheek pressed against the glass in a very unflattering way. To Mary Jane, however, the sight was nothing short of adorable. 

She wanted to scream at the injustice of the entire situation—not just being stranded on a snowbound train at close to midnight with her ex, but Peter's being an ex for reasons she couldn't fathom try as she might. It had been months without sign or sight of him; longer still had he been regulated to that dreaded zone of just being considered a friend.

MJ couldn't decipher just why things had fallen apart. The roughest estimate she could determine for herself was that the whole debacle had more than likely been entirely her own damn fault. After all, if there was one thing Mary Jane Watson could be counted on, it was fucking up a good thing for no reason whatsoever. At least that was what she thought anyway.

Folding her arms across her chest at the return of those painfully vulnerable sensations, MJ looked out the window once more, staring at the perfect storm in the reflection of her eyes and the wilds beyond the stalled train. 

So it was, consumed in her own self-loathing, that she didn't quite here the stifled snore from ten seats away. Nor did she see Peter jerk awake and look around in bleary eyed confusion, wondering at first why the train wasn't moving, and how he'd possibly missed the fact that he was sharing the otherwise deserted car with the once and former love of his life. 

* * *

 

For once, Peter Parker hadn't been on some heroic errand of daring-do when he'd found himself in Boston. He'd been called away from his quiet and respectable job at Horizon Labs to participate in a science conference. He'd been expecting something quiet, respectable and a little bit awkward; maybe a few drinks and some attempts at Bill Nye humor. Instead he'd found himself thrust back into his college days: rowdy engineers and biochemists had used the conference as an excuse to cut loose, drink wine and screw around. Peter had kept up appearances for the sake of keeping his colleagues off his back, and as a result had barely made his departing train on time.

Evidently the festivities had knocked his sails down with gale force winds because he’d fallen asleep the second his ass had hit the seat. He'd dimly noted his luck at finding an empty car on an otherwise busy Amtrak line and then conked out, all without realizing that Mary Jane Watson was sitting not ten seats away from him. 

Peter's initial response at waking up to the sight of his ex-girlfriend had been one of jubilant foolishness. He'd wanted to call out a friendly greeting, but had subsequently remembered that they'd been broken up since last winter. Saying a pleasant hello and expecting one in return was a Hail Mary that even Tebow wouldn't put an ounce of faith in. 

So he sat there, glancing furtively at Mary Jane once or twice and contemplating whether or not it would be too dramatic to just break the window open and swing to New York City. Of course he'd have to offer MJ a lift; he wasn't completely coldhearted.

As the minutes ticked by, Mary Jane looking stonily out at the freak blizzard that had resulted in their being trapped together in the first place, Peter put his considerable thinking skills to use and tried to figure out why they'd called it quits after going through so much together. But all the knowledge of Newtonian physics and Jungian psychology couldn't help him in the least. He wracked and wracked and still the answer eluded his adhesive grasp. 

The one scant conclusion he could reach was that, if he couldn't remember why they'd broken up, then it mustn’t have been over anything worthwhile. Some silly tiff, that had to have been it. MJ had stood loyally by him through trials and tribulations that would have given H.R. Giger nightmares.  

Peter tried hard not to study MJ's face as they both sat in interminable silence. She was as stunningly gorgeous as ever, more so that she'd never considered herself a great beauty. Pretty, certainly, but MJ had made many a journalists jaw drop when admitting, with fully sincerity, that she was nothing to sneeze at unless she'd been in hair and makeup for two hours. Her bastard of a father had left her mother and sister with physical scars, but the ones he'd inflicted on MJ were deeper than skin and sinew, and Peter would hate the man until he had the decency to draw his last breath.

The feeling remained to this very second, even more so given how completely rundown MJ looked. The shadows under her sea-storm eyes had deepened since the last time he'd seen her, and her cherry lips were drawn as she sat and stewed in a malaise that Peter recognized all too well. 

As ever, he wanted to take it away—wanted nothing more than to go over to her and heal every last injury within his capabilities to heal. He felt it burn him from the inside out, but unlike every other time he'd hurt to be her champion, this sensation was tainted with pain, because he couldn't do it now. Couldn't save her and soothe her and love her, and damn it all if he still didn't know why. 

Peter felt something stinging his eyes. He couldn't cry here, not over this. Even if he couldn't figure out where they'd gone wrong, he was confident in one thing alone: whatever it was, it had been entirely his fault. He'd been the cause of many disasters in his own life, and all of them were mostly of his own design. It only made sense that he, Peter, had taken the one thing that had been a constant balm and sent it all to the Pit. 

He sniffled, and failed miserably at attempting to pass the sound off as a sneeze. 

Mary Jane finally looked away from the daggers-glare staring contest she'd been waging with her own reflection. The connection between them hadn't lost any of its magnetism it seemed. Their eyes locked without any preamble or attempt to avoid, and Peter was sent hurtling backward through his own memories as if MJ's eyes had Hulk-punched him square in the solar plexus.

* * *

_Thinking of the break up is useless because he doesn't know how or why and doesn't care to. Instead, Peter remembers how she'd waited patiently with his secret guarded in her heart—waited while he'd fallen for Gwen and then lost her. And then like a ray of spring sunlight she'd come through the storm and coaxed him back to life. Together they weathered every subsequent disaster, and Peter sees all those moments like he's watching a film reel.  
_

_He sees the times she lived up to his knowledge of the strong, resourceful women he knew her to be. He sees those nights when they'd stay awake and talk about things as workaday as whether or not Count Chocula was part of the Dracula canon; sees how she used to fall to pieces with relief when he came home safe and sound.  
_

_And because he's a man, he sees the times when they were tangled up in skin and breath and lips. He sees their first time most of all, clear as crystal and almost humiliating in all it's gloriously, awkward perfection.  
_

_She's on top of him, guiding him through this thing that was the object of his every private adolescent fantasy. She whispers to him, not about what's happening but just about things in general, and it's honestly helping. Even though his voice shakes with every syllable as he tries his utmost to hold back, he's still trying to make this—well, not exactly special, because her first time was years ago and honestly she's trying to make it more special for him than he is for her—but he's trying to make his inexperience up to her.  
_

_She bends down, her hair like an autumn sunset cascading over his face. She whispers softly—in the recalling of it, Peter can't remember what she says, only that it was meaningful and wonderful. His breath catches ragged in his throat; he strangles a groan as he comes, hating himself for not being able to last longer for her. But in that spectacular way of hers, MJ understands. She kisses him softly, tells him that it's okay and there's going to be time and plenty for him to become a lover with stamina.  
_

_Of course he does, and not long there after too. Peter lets the memories wash over him like a cleansing tide; but the waves are crushing in that he knows he ruined it all.  
_

_That Spider-Man ruined it all._

* * *

Peter's eyes still burned with a wash of tears that he struggled and failed to keep contained. Blinking, he looked anywhere but at Mary Jane, praying to every deity both dubious and real that she hadn't seen him shed tears over the ruin of their love. 

But one look across that infinite distance of ten or so cushioned seats showed him that his fears were completely justified. Upright in her seat, lips parted and eyes bright with empathy and understanding, MJ stared at Peter stricken. He hated himself again for causing her more grief; if only she'd had that "here we go again" aloofness that he'd seen often in their relationship. He deserved her scorn and contempt, not her pity and understanding. 

His spider-sense, honed as it was for signs of danger, did not let him down even now. He felt the tremor in the air and along his nerves as MJ's muscles tensed. Despite a beautiful face the very picture of confliction, she got to her feet and began to walk down the aisle towards a frozen and flustered Peter Parker. 

* * *

 

Aunt Anna had once told Mary Jane that she ought to live her life on the maxim, "look before you leap." MJ had done plenty of looking in the last fifteen minutes and she'd decided to leap without any thought of the consequence. 

At least that was what she'd told herself. Courage was a fickle thing when the chips were down; with each step she took down the empty aisle, she wondered if she should leave things here, just a passing glimpse and an awkward silence on a broken down train.

_Six feet away_ … 

Suppose he hated her for whatever it was that she'd done?

_Four feet away…_

Why did he have to go looking at her like that, his damn handsome, stubbly face so full of hope?

_Two feet away…  
_

Christ, but she missed him. 

Mary Jane was on him; trepidation and anticipation rolled off of him like pheromones, along with the ocean musk of his cologne—the one she'd told him was to die for all those years ago. He wanted this—whatever it was—so badly that it kept him rooted to his seat in mortal terror. 

She took a step away, throwing possibility to the winds in a moment of contrition that would have done her devoutly Catholic grandmother proud. She didn't deserve this, didn't deserve him after the mess she'd most likely made of a love that had healed scars she'd felt she'd come into the world possessing. Why should he do anything other than turn her away?

She could pass her flight from her seat off as a trip to the dining car; that was it. Anything to avoid the confirmation she knew she'd find in his eyes. Anything to...

Broad knuckles that could as soon knock a man's head clean off as plume the inside of a nanochip brushed the back of MJ's trembling hand. That simple contact of familiar skin against familiar skin served as the spark to a crucible of fuel that had been brewing quietly for months. 

MJ looked into Peter's eyes doubtfully, wondering if this were all a grand joke. She was astonished to see the naked want in his gaze, as if he were just as afraid as she was. 

The knowledge of such a thing sent a thrill like winter wind through Mary Jane, deadening the fires of self-destruction. A simple turn of hands, and the next moment Peter was on his feet, his arms around her, kissing her with a possessive ferocity that made Mary Jane's knees buckle. 

* * *

Instinct was as basic to Peter as breathing. He had to rely on it to fight against the forces of evil, and it had saved his skin more times than once. This, however, had absolutely dick all to do with saving New York City, the United States of America, planet Earth or the fabric of reality as he knew it. 

This was all selfish want and need on his part, and he didn't have enough of his old adolescent self-flagellation left to deny himself this. It wouldn't be the end of the world if he and the woman he loved—for love her he did, and mightily still—kissed on the midnight train from Boston.

She tasted exquisite, and felt like heaven and then some in his arms. MJ clung to him, her fingers digging into his winter jacket so hard that Peter was sure she'd tear through the fabric. Far from caring about something so trivial, Peter crushed her to him, breathing in the delicate smell of her skin and perfume, his fingers threading through her firestorm hair. He needed her more than air, and realized that he always had. Without her, his life had been nothing but a series of monochromatic instances. She was color and warmth and vitality. She didn't just give life meaning—she gave it substance. 

They broke apart only once, looking at one another in stupid surprise. He knew her like he knew his own name, and well enough to understand with just that wide-eyed disbelief that they'd both somehow stumbled over the same rut in the road; both allowed meaningless lack of communication to birth a rift that needn't have existed in the first place. 

He could have laughed if he hadn't felt the fever in his body for her. In any case, MJ didn't give him the chance to make so much as a peep as she pulled him in for yet another needing kiss.  

Somehow she ended up in the cramped bathroom of their car with him, the air rife with the smell of disinfectant and citrus air freshener. This was wild, spontaneous but they had so much catching up to do and Peter dreaded leaving it here—was more terrified than he'd been of anything that she would walk off into the grey New York City snow after they made it to Grand Central Station without a care for what had happened. 

It was a sadly misplaced fear; MJ wouldn't have walked away from Peter and this remarkable, living return to what they'd once had under threat of torture and death. She'd gone through the motions of life these last lonely months, making herself believe that she was better off throwing herself into a career that had lost its meaning some time after she'd kicked her smoking habit. She'd taken on so much, trying to fill the empty with the notion of doing something of substance when all she'd wanted was this beautiful man—the one she could and would and had done so much to give a normal life amid the thick of his tangled web. 

Turning back on it now would be nothing short of heresy, especially with his hands grasping at every part of her they could reach. He pulled her sweater over her head and tossed it to the floor. That dark, primal possessiveness came into his eyes. He dipped his head and nuzzled the top of her breasts, nipping the silky flesh as he skirted his curious and clever fingers up her thigh. 

MJ gasped and laughed at the feeling, not giving a flying fuck that she was sitting in the sink with an industrial metal tap pressing into her tailbone. She didn't care if the God forsaken train stayed shut down for the rest of the month, as long as she could have this again. 

Peter growled at the obstruction of her bra. MJ smirked, reached behind her and unclasped the offending article.

Peter loved her laugh, loved the taste and feel of her—the warmth of her skin and the smoothness of her breasts. He devoured a trail of kisses and nips down her stomach to the top of her jeans. MJ lifted her hips off the stainless steel sink, the better to allow Peter to pop the button and shimmy her jeans down to her ankles. 

A dark, animal hunger overcame him, one born of his long starvation for her. MJ sighed in utter content as he kissed his way down the inside of her thigh, biting and licking the bone of her ankle. She wrapped her legs around his neck as he peppered his way back towards her panties; one of the benefits of being in love with a man who had immense super strength was that she didn't have to worry about whether or not he could hold her up in such an intimate way. He simply could, and it had been so achingly long since he'd peeled her underwear down and dove for the intimacy of her core with rabid abandon that MJ couldn't help but writhe and clutch at the back of his hair. 

Lesser men than Peter Parker considered such things to be a task at hand—something to get out of the way by sheer obligation as a precursor to their own much needed happy finish. But Peter was nothing like those men; MJ's pleasure meant something to him. Cynics, especially those with basketball-sized breasts, platinum blonde hair and a cat fetish would have said that it was a result of Peter's not getting laid until college, but MJ knew better. 

He loved her, so much so that taking her to that pinnacle was not a chore or obligation; it was his way of worshipping his own personal goddess. 

His tongue delved into the wetness of her folds, lapping her up like sweet honey. The pad of his thumb circled her clit as he plumed her intimate depths with his tongue and lips, devouring her like a ravenous tiger.

Mary Jane let out a moaning laugh at the raunchy application of her pet-name for Peter. Still trapped in the delectable cage of her thighs, Peter looked up at MJ, a lascivious smile on his face. Then he dove back to the wet heat of her pussy, his tongue wreaking exquisite havoc on her body. 

MJ watched him the entire time, her hair a flaming mass of disarray. And when she finally came, it was with a scream and a laugh as wild as the winter storm outside. She clutched Peter's face closer to her body, and he lapped at her for all she was worth. Panting, MJ stared as Peter made a show of licking his lips and then wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. It was sheer masculine pride, and it made MJ ache in her satiated core. 

Peter panted, standing up and savoring the taste of Mary Jane on his tongue. Fuck, but she was so damn good, sweet and silky like a potent wine. Drunk off of the flavor, Peter stood back, admiring the rosy -faced, panting mess he'd made of her. He was so hard that he was surprised he hadn't popped the button of his slacks. 

But Mary Jane was nothing if not one to rise to the occasion. Even though she'd been rendered boneless from his fingers and his tongue, she wasn't a guileless sex kitten; those burning jade eyes made a beeline for the protrusion in the front of his pants. She reached for him, grabbing him by the front of his jacket. MJ pulled him close, tearing his outerwear from him; his jacket fell to the floor of the cramped bathroom. Shiny black buttons flew against the walls and down the sink as MJ ripped Peter's button up open. Mad with need, Peter already had his belt undone and his pants halfway down his knees; not even the strength of House Targaryen, whose red dragon adorned his black silk boxers, could contain the immense steeliness of his hard-on, or the wet spot blooming through the fabric from his leaking cockhead. 

MJ palmed Peter's erection as she kissed him with an electric passion that made his lips tingle. He wanted her to take everything of him in that moment; she could have killed him and he would have been perfectly content with just this. But MJ wasn't thinking remotely of murder; all she wanted was him.

She nipped at his lips and left a trail of kisses down his throat. Peter gasped as MJ bit his nipple, lapping her tongue around the hard bud as se continued to knead his cock through his boxers. 

He whispered things to her that he couldn't understand—needful things and filthy pleas for her to do with him as she wished. MJ gave his nipple one last bite, one last healing lick, and then pulled his boxers down to his knees. His cock sprang free, hard and rosy headed. MJ stroked the silky length, staring into his eyes with her lips parted invitingly. 

He needed her air, needed to feel her breathing into him; had to taste her just in case this was the last time. He kissed her with every last ounce of want he had in him. MJ moaned into his mouth; Peter pushed her against the sink once more. Synchronicity born of their years together made them move in tandem without so much coming up for air from their scorching kiss: Peter lifted her off the ground, MJ wrapped her legs around his waist; he didn't need to leverage her weight with anything, not with his superhuman strength. He could hold her up forever, and she knew it. 

Mary Jane's arms circled around Peter's neck, and they broke apart at long last, both breathless and panting. A million secret thoughts and feelings passed between them as they drowned in one another's eyes. Peter felt on the precipice of the all-consuming ache for her; then propriety seized him in the haze of lust, and he froze. 

"I don't have any, y'know...protection." He swallowed at the lump in his throat, his voice shuddering. Was this the great destroyer in their blessed reunion? How stupid could he have been to go to another city without carrying at least one solitary rubber? Even with his stagnant love life, he still should have been prepared, and leave it to him to screw this miraculous thing up on some epic Peter Parker oversight that should have been--

"It's okay," Mary Jane whispered with that understanding smile she'd used after their first time. "I don't care right now, Tiger. As long as it's you."

Peter smiled at her, something touching deep within his soul. He kissed her quickly once more, and then slowly, achingly, entered her, never once breaking away from that stormy, oceanic gaze. 

Mary Jane let out a fluttering gasp; it wasn't as if she hadn't been with men since their pointless breakup. But with Peter, with her hero, it was sheer and utter muscle memory, and the knowledge of it made her throw her head back and smile. Whatever had torn them asunder didn't matter; this felt too perfect for anything that had come between them.

Tight, wet, heat enveloped Peter's cock as he sheathed himself to the hilt. He felt like a perfect sinner given a chance at Paradise once again; he needed her, knew that he couldn't survive without her. He didn't care what he'd probably done to have broken them up; all he cared about was that she was here in his arms again, gasping and moaning as he thrust slowly in and out. He nuzzled her breasts; MJ raked the flesh of Peter's bare chest with her nails, her legs wrapped tightly around him in a vice of flesh and desire. 

The air grew thick with her moans and his grunts; the warm scent of sex filled them like the headiest perfume: them as they were, perfectly together and moving as one. Gasps and growls wrote a symphony of primal sound as Peter fucked into her. She had the power to render him completely crazed with her body—she always had. MJ bit into the skin of Peter's shoulder as, once again, she felt every fiber of her being come magnificently alive like she'd been made for this exact thing. Made for him. 

Peter sighed in blissful contentment when he felt MJ clench around his thrusting dick. Trapped in the tight heat of her was like a memory of Heaven itself. He nearly came when her teeth sank into his skin, but he'd longed for this so much that he couldn't ruin it by finishing yet, even if his stamina could put most men to shame. MJ shuddered around him, nearly drawing blood as she bit into his shoulder with the force of her orgasm. Peter threw his head back, a silent growl of triumph rumbling in his chest. Her nails dug into his back; she was marking him with her teeth and her fingers as hers and only hers, and Peter wouldn't have had it any other way. He abandoned all pretense of trying to hold out; he slammed his hips forward, sheathing himself balls deep as he filled her with ropes of hot seed.

Mary Jane hung onto him as she milked him for all he was worth, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. She felt addicted, high on everything about this—about the feel of him inside her, about the smell of his skin and sweat and the sound of his ragged cries. 

For a moment they lingered, still connected as lovers and by arms and skin. Then the high of the body rush receded. Peter and MJ smiled almost shyly at one other; Peter pressed a soft kiss to Mary Jane's lips as he regretfully slipped from her body. They took the utmost care of one another in the haze of their afterglow; Peter set about helping MJ back into her clothes, combing her disheveled hair with his fingers and kneading a soothing massage into the back of her neck. 

With a flirtatious smirk, MJ cleaned Peter's flaccid length with a soft sheet of Kleenex. Then, once his clothes were likewise righted to something resembling respectable, she wrapped her arms around him once more, burying her face in his chest. That fear had stolen upon her again—that this would be all they had, and though she'd told herself in the heat of their love that this would be enough, she knew it wouldn't be anything of the kind. She needed him back, wanted him back. 

When Peter did not push her away—not that he had any desire to do that—MJ finally collected enough of her wits to look up at him. The raw love shining in his big, puppy dog eyes scattered whatever anxieties she had left like a wind blowing dark clouds from the silvery moon. He kissed her again, threaded his arm through hers and led her out of the cramped bathroom and to the empty car. 

For a moment, Mary Jane and Peter stood arm and arm, MJ leaning into the familiar strength of his body as they watched the snow falling.   
  
The intercom buzzed to life once more. The conductor's voice cut through the perfect silence. "Alright folks, looks like the snow's letting up. We'll be moving forward now. Thanks for the patience. It'll be four hours to the Big Apple yet."

MJ sighed. Then, casting Peter a furtive sidelong glance, she said, "You heading home after we get out of here, Tiger?"

"Yeah. Probably right to bed."

MJ took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for a jump from the top of the Empire State Building.

"Still room for two in that bed?"

Peter grinned and said, "Absolutely. If you’ll have me that is.”

Several moments later they were curled up together, MJ's head tucked under his chin. The train moved through the silvery, snowy night, taking them both home to the sleepless chaos of New York City--taking them home together, they way they were meant to be. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of meant to be kind of a post-One More Day story. Incidentally, if I ever meet Joe Quesada...well, in all Christian decency, I can't even say what I would do to that piece of shit. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


End file.
